


Aftershock

by featherboats



Series: Weekly Challenge [2]
Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Friendship/Love, Idiots in Love, Timeless Weekly Challenge, Week Challenge, angsty, because we're talking about..., but not too angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-29
Updated: 2017-03-29
Packaged: 2018-10-12 07:57:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10485990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/featherboats/pseuds/featherboats
Summary: Prompt #2: Lucy finally decides to read the journal Flynn gave her and she finds out some interesting things about her future.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I know, just in time, right? Here I am posting week #2 when we're already in week #4, but rl happened.

Lucy tosses and turns like a tempest sea. Hard pillow, lumpy mattress, cold sheets deliberately keeping her from much needed restful slumber. Images of things yet to come swirl about, mocking her. The vile, misshapen snapshots refuse to part ways with her … branded within, no going back. She can even smell the scorching of flesh. _As if that were possible._

 

She can’t decide whether to praise or berate herself for giving into curiosity. The strange object had puzzled her from the moment she saw it under the flames of the fallen Hindenburg. A _mystery_.  One that enticed her interest every time it was mentioned, yet that very interest coaxed great fear out of her.

 

She cranks up the heat but there’s no use. There’s no stopping the serenity-perturbing shivers – a complete one-eighty from the evening’s earlier events, filled with heartening warmth … her core fever stricken from the press of Wyatt’s body against hers, his hot breath in the back of her ear, his lips on hers.

 

When she pushed the front door closed with her hip earlier that night in a stupor, the vigor of the burning fire still vivid in her pith, she had no idea _this_ was how it would end. Placing her keys over the console table, her gaze promptly drifted toward the worn item. It felt as if a siren were calling out her name, hauling on her, hypnotizing her. And so she opened it.

 

_It felt like hours until she was done with the whole thing._

 

She let the journal fall to her side, her limp hands resting upon her knees. With a catchy breath, tears threatening to spill out, and a sharp pang over her chest, it didn’t feel like she was merely reading passages on paper. Lucy was enduring those moments all over again. No. Not ‘all over again’; _beforehand_ … since they hadn’t happened. _Yet_.

 

It is now 2:07 and she struggles to close her eyes, clear her head, put those thoughts away from her heart and mind. She tries all the tricks she’d been taught while growing up to induce sleep. None of them work. It’s too cold, too hot; too dark, too bright. When she’s (supposedly) falling asleep at last, she frantically rises gasping for air … her airways blocked from all the crying.

 

The words scorn her, haunt her musings.

 

 

_He doesn't know who I am._

 

 

Sleep never claims her.

 

*

 

She had no idea the sight of Wyatt flipping through a pile of aged dusty files would sadden her in the most painful way. They’d been summoned that morning for another mission. Lucy hadn’t payed much attention to the details, she just wanted to get to Mason Industries and … _what, exactly_? She wasn’t even sure. She just wanted an excuse to see him.

 

The tone of the missions they were sent on had gravely changed. Ever since, Wyatt had meticulously been preparing for them, reading about people, places, events … anything that could possibly help them out in the field. Nothing was too much.

 

She watches him with an ocean in sight, tells herself he’s right there. _He’s okay_. His eyes had flashed with recognition upon seeing her earlier that morning. _He’s okay_. She wants to pull him towards her, wants to feel the prick of his hair against her neck, sense the intoxicating scent of his shampoo. Instead, she settles for the mere visual confirmation of his wellbeing.

 

Wyatt knows something is up. He feels her intent gaze upon him, catches it out of the corner of his eye. She’d been acting strange the entire morning, hardly saying a word to him. He turns to her and Lucy immediately looks away, thinking he doesn’t notice it. His muscle tingles at the dismissal, more than just a little.

 

“Lucy, is everything okay?”

 

“Huh?” She makes eye contact with him for the first time since their exchange the night before.

 

“Are you okay? You look—uh,” he pauses. She looks tired, but that is not exactly what he wants her to hear from him. “You’re acting weird.”

 

“Me?” She avoids his eyes again, the nervousness in her tone just about making Wyatt’s point.

 

His insecurities get the best of him. Maybe he was wrong about the signs he assumed Lucy had been sending him when he acted just a few hours prior.

 

“Is this about last night?” His tone betrays him, coming off somewhat more vulnerable than he had intended.

 

“What?” She turns to look at him, slowly walking towards the place where he stands, frozen. “No. No, no … _no_ ,” he’s not buying it. “ _No_ , Wyatt,” she says matter-of-factly. “That has nothing to do with it,” she rushes to say.

 

She extends her arm, reaches for his wrist … her skin runs circles along the back of his palm. In her eyes a sorrow, like he’s going to dissolve if she dares to blink. “Really.”

 

He looks from their joined hands to her vanquished face, bemused.

 

“Then, what is the matter?” He feels like her body and psyche are not in sync, sending him mixed signals he’s unable to interpret.

 

She feels the warmth irradiating from his pores and tears well up in her eyes.

 

“Lucy…”

 

She takes a deep breath, shakes her head lightly … a failed attempt at keeping her emotions at bay.

 

“I have made a decision,” she blurts out.

 

Dread immediately sets in the pit of his stomach. “O—kay,” he waits for her to continue, afraid to further press.

 

“I’m going to start writing the journal after all,” she starts. “Already have, actually. This morning.”

 

Confusion runs across his face. Her attitude about the journal wholly altered from her previous stance on it.

 

“Why?”

 

“I just—I don’t know. It feels like the right thing to do.”

 

“It _feels_ like the right thing to do?”

 

“Uh-huh,” she nods, averting her eyes once more. But the ache from the newfound information is too fresh for her to mask.

 

“What about governing your own future? You’ve always said the journal shook the foundation of your self-awareness … enough that it made you question your own identity. Now you want to cave and just write it? Like you’re some sort of tailored puppet?”

 

He is absolutely right about everything. But it’s either writing the journal or the _alternative_. Her decision had been made.

 

“Things have changed completely,” she won’t dare tell him the reason. “History … everything I’ve learned, _you’ve_ learned; that’s not what the books teach us any longer. I just need something to remember it by … how things _actually_ happened. In our original timeline.” Lucy retorts speedily.

 

Little does she know he doesn’t believe a word of it.

 

“Is that why you’re crying?”

 

Her mouth slightly ajar, she quickly rubs her eyes against her shoulders. “I’m not crying,” she chuckles. “I had trouble sleeping last night. My eyes are just watery from the burnout, that’s all.”

 

Wyatt sighs. He wishes she would tell him whatever it is that's bothering her. “All right, as you wish. Is History-as-we-know-it really _that_ important? Aren’t things constantly changing? What difference does it make if the Hindenburg collapses late at night or first thing in the morning?”

 

“It’s important to me,” he could be so annoying sometimes. She wonders if he’s onto her. “History might mean nothing to you, but it does to me!”

 

“Why’d you tell me then?” He leans slightly sideways. “It looks like you’re looking for a reason not to do it. Somehow, I think you want me to tell you otherwise, to stop you from even starting.”

 

Lucy shakes her head. “What’s it to you if I write it or not? It’s _my_ journal,” sleep deprivation kicking in, she spits it out coarsely.

 

Wyatt is terrified. The journal had that effect on him, perhaps even more so than it did on Lucy. Journal-Lucy always came off as someone completely different, someone who’d eventually drift apart from them … from _him_. It petrifies him that’s the direction they’re headed now, walking down a dead-end towards another Lucy. He’s losing her. She’s slipping from his fingers … much like it’s happening now as she dissolves their connection at the commotion by the door.

 

The hurt in his face is evident.

 

“Fine,” he adds in a forlorn monotone as agent Christopher enters the room, followed by an inquisitive Rufus.

 

Their glances meet across the room, worlds apart, as Denise prepares them for the coming jump. Dismay painted over Wyatt’s face, he exhales and turns his attention to the Homeland Security operative.

 

*

 

It’s not how she anticipated things would go. Wyatt’s disapproval had been clear the minute she told him about the journal, but somehow, they had managed to exponentially escalate the situation. He’s refrained from talking.

 

Well, he’s talking … it’s not as bad as the French Indian War. He makes eye contact every now and then, speaks directly to her, even helps her with her seatbelt (she makes a mental note never to let on she’s learned how to properly handle those). Still, he’s not him. Not _exactly_ … the mindful, hearty Wyatt she knew replaced by a hollow shell.

 

It is nowhere near their customary dynamic.

 

Rufus catches the denseness in the air immediately. _Lucy and Wyatt tiptoeing around each other?_ His eyebrows raise briskly.

 

“So, what is up with you guys? Did you kiss or something?” He tries breaking the ice as the bell dings, coaching them to enter the elevator.

 

Each member of the team leans against a different wall. The silence is deafening. Lucy swallows the lump lodged in her throat while Wyatt stares awkwardly at his feet.

 

Rufus looks from one to the other, blinking in confusion. “Okay, awkward silence it is then.”

 

With all the commotion, Wyatt failed to notice what was right in front of him. The missions are nothing like the _chasing-Flynn_ ones, having turned more active rather than reactive. They are targets now. They are always targets.

 

And they had walked straight into a trap.

 

 _I should have seen it_ , Wyatt thinks. The receptionist had _that_ look. He should have known better, should have realized the privacy of the elevator’s location _wasn’t_ for their convenience. Now his team was in danger. _Because of him_.

 

Wyatt studies his friends … they had both been in enough missions to know something was not right. The strange beeping and blinking on the panel gives it away. Rufus mumbles something unintelligible – lips ajar, eyes widening by the moment – as Wyatt turns his attention to Lucy. Her hold on the lateral rails so strong her knuckles go colorless.

 

Lucy feels the air she breathes disappear in a vacuum, her most dreaded fear being realized … _again_. Her breath catches as knifes pierce mercilessly through her lungs, blinding her into implacable darkness.

 

“Lucy…” his voice is measured and heartfelt. Her eyes avert towards his and for a moment … _even if but a brief moment_ … she’s pulled away from the engulfing shadows. She’s aware his mouth is moving but she can’t discern words, so she allows herself the comfort of his soothing eyes … forgetting momentarily she’s inside a 20 square-foot box.

 

The elevator stops and Wyatt’s left hand draws closer to his gun, right hand shielding the pair that shares the enclosed space with him. But the doors don’t open. The lights start flashing as a high-pitched howl escapes Rufus’ throat.

 

_Lucy’s wheezing is so sharp it could cut through steel._

They hear a resounding snap above them. “Wyatt?” She cries out in horror, looking for reassurance he’s unable to offer. Rufus can’t even bring himself to articulate words. The elevator plummets and blackness overtakes them.

 

*

 

Her eyesight adjusts to the mist that swirls about in a strive. Ears ringing, mind gone blank, a voice in the distance catches her attention.

 

_Everyone okay?_

She assumes it’s Wyatt’s. “Hey,” his gentle hands guide her vantage point towards him. “Lucy? You okay? _You okay_?” It’s still hard to see through the dust, and Lucy is having trouble focusing as it is. “Lucy?!”

 

Wyatt’s neck snaps back after Rufus’ acute shriek before she can speak, an expression of sheer pain across the coder’s face. The fall made him land directly on top of his arm, its position looking anything but natural.

 

“Rufus?” Wyatt reluctantly lets go of Lucy, disappearing behind the cloud of soot. “Rufus?” Wyatt kneels before him, his tone erratic. He examines the situation as best as he can, trying to move Rufus’ arm and in return receiving a resonating protest from his friend.

 

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, man. Can you stand?” Wyatt’s voice is desperate. Rufus nods, tears in his eyes from the pain.

 

_We’ve got to get out of here. We’ve got to get out of here._

_They’re coming._

Lucy tries rationalizing the situation, but all her mind gives her are the four tight walls enclosing her … and the _water_. They are nowhere near it, but she feels its presence nonetheless, submerging her, drowning her.

The dust settles enough that she’s able to see Wyatt kick an opening through what, she reasoned, had once been the elevator’s ceiling. To his relief, Wyatt finds a small opening in the concrete prison that confines them.

 

“We have a way out.”

 

Lucy watches as Wyatt crouches down next to Rufus. “Come on, Rufus. We’re getting out of here,” he stammers.

 

_We need to hurry._

 

“Lucy!” Wyatt pauses. “I need to get him out first, okay?” She wears a somber expression unlike any he’s seen before. _It’s going to be okay, I’ll be right here._

 

He’s as careful as he can be lifting Rufus up … wary not to sprain his arm even more, the limb starting to swell in certain areas. “I’m sorry, man. I’m really sorry.”

 

They both disappear, and so does Lucy. Her mind hovers above her, just out of reach. She is suffocating.

 

_Lucy! Lucy?!_

 

She feels his hold on her and suddenly the walls around her recede, the water ebbs, the murkiness gives way to alluring light warming her skin. _How long had it been?_ “It’s okay, Lucy. It’s okay. Look, you’re out,” he whispers close to her ear. _The enveloping of his arms is so comforting._

He pulls back slightly, bringing her attention to him. “I’m sorry, but we must go _now_. Someone’s coming. Can you do this for me, Lucy? Can you stay with me?”

 

She glances from Rufus to him, a faint uproar developing in the distance.

 

_You can do this, Lucy. You can do this._

 

“I can’t do this alone, Lucy. I need your help.”

 

She looks at him, nods decisively. “Yeah,” her voice is resolved. “I can, yes … let’s get out of here.”

 

Wyatt nods back in response, a small smile on his lips. “Come,” they throw Rufus’ arm around either’s shoulders and rush down the iffy path.

 

*

 

Back at Mason Industries, Wyatt debriefs with agent Christopher while Lucy and Rufus hang back in the medical bay.

 

“So, the intel I provided was inaccurate?” Denise asks.

 

“Not necessarily. I think they might have been tipped off,” Wyatt considers, the guilt in his face indisputable.

 

“Wyatt, it’s not your fault,” she simply states.

 

“I should have seen it coming.”

 

“You are only one person,” she counters. “The three of you made it back with your lives, that’s all that matters. Let’s count that as a victory, shall we?” She studies him. “Besides, the tasks have changed. We’re still navigating the waters of directly dealing with Rittenhouse.”

 

“Speaking of which,” Wyatt clears his throat. “With all due respect, I don’t think these missions are prudent anymore. Not with how they’re laid out. They were fine when the job was chasing Flynn, but this layout is no longer effective.”

 

“I agree with you. I’m having Mason run diagnostics later. If these jumps are to continue, something needs to change. You’ll be an active part of the investigating committee,” Denise sighs, the risk of this job taking a toll on her. “For now, just go home and rest. Thank you for your service, Master Sergeant.”

 

Wyatt nods. “Ma’am.”

 

-

 

He walks out of the conference room to find Lucy mere feet away, looking drained but otherwise fit.

 

“Hey,” he says quietly. “You okay?”

 

“Yeah,” she smiles. “Nothing to worry about,” she holds up her discharge forms. “Just a few scrapes and bruises.”

 

“Rufus?”

 

“Oh, he’s going to be fine. I think he likes being pampered by Jiya, actually,” she laughs softly, trying to brighten the mood. It doesn’t work, remorse plastered all over Wyatt’s face.

 

“Wyatt—I overheard your conversation with agent Christopher,” she cuts straight to the chase, smile falling. “She’s right, you know? It’s not your fault.”

 

He’s nodding but his expression tells another story that has nothing to do with agreement.

 

“You’re the reason we made it back in one piece,” it dawns on her and for a split second her heart skips. “Well, maybe a little more than one piece,” she jokes. The chuckle it produces on Wyatt swells her chest.

 

 _Wyatt … smiling._ The gesture brings her such overwhelm it doesn’t go unnoticed by him.

 

“Lucy? What is it?”

 

“Huh? Oh, nothing,” she dismisses him with the flail of her hand. “Just, everything. Things seem so crazy lately. And I’m a little tired.”

 

That he can relate to.

 

Lucy closes the distance between them, pauses. As if abiding by a silent request, she relaxes into Wyatt’s inviting embrace. _Because that’s what they do now_. Arms wrapped around his torso, she rests her head on his heaving chest.

 

“Thank you. Back there, you know? Thank you for pulling me out,” _figuratively and literally_.

 

“Of course, Lucy. You don’t have to thank me.”

 

Silence falls between them, his fingertips against her scalp sending heavenly shivers through her body.

 

“Wyatt, I’m sorry. Sorry about earlier.”

 

He shakes his head. “No, it’s okay, Lucy. _I’m_ sorry. It wasn’t my place. _It’s not my place_.”

 

_If he only knew._

“It was not my intention to drive a wedge between us.”

 

“You haven’t, Lucy. We’re good,” he pauses. “I’m sorry. I know History is important to you. I didn’t mean to belittle it. If you think it’s important to have this journal written, by all means.”

 

Lucy tightens her grip, feeling his quintessence against her … willing herself to recognize he’s there, _hers to hold_. He’s the reckless hothead to her, she’s the bossy know-it-all to him. As it should be.

 

The truth of the matter was he’d reacted to her news about writing the journal. What he didn’t know was the reason behind that decision. _He didn’t know why._

 

*

 

_(THE PREVIOUS NIGHT)_

 

Lucy’s eyes dart towards the tumbled object, dangling open in the gloomy page. The words make her gag. Her eyes go lifeless.

 

 

_He doesn’t know who I am._

She’d felt fearful but excited holding the leather gadget in her hands. Now all she feels is dread. The first pages are generic, filled up by historical events. The moon landing, Watergate, war on top of war, the Hindenburg.

 

_Nothing new. Nothing she doesn’t know._

Toward the middle section she encounters familiar names, such as Mason Industries, Rufus, Lifeboat, … _Wyatt_. Her heart jumps. Her very first entry about him doesn’t sound like her … _He needs to let go and move on._ She struggles to understand the logic behind the assembly of the journal, the logic she herself had made use of. _Were they random?_ They couldn’t be.

 

Her chest pounds next, the entries having taken a more personal tone. She reads about them, _about what they become._ It’s like listening to good music for the first time, every inch of her body covered in hair-raising shivers. On the top of the page, a small square picture of the pair draws her in. They look so content she has a hard time believing it’s them. Behind the picture, a dried iris and a little note that reads, _‘Yours truly’_ , held in place by a paperclip. Small tokens that, without context, seem arbitrary to her. She wonders why she’d chosen to place _those_ in there.

 

Lucy smiles, turning the heavy pages once more. Her expression changes completely.

 

 

_I come back and “our” is now “mine”. He doesn’t recognize me. He doesn’t know who I am anymore._

Lucy’s heart sinks low, the processing of the words translating into her parted lips, her damp eyes, her blood-cutting grip on the journal.

 

_Somehow, we saw it coming. He begged me not to go, and I agreed it was a bad idea. But part of me, (a very stupid part) wanted to believe there was no secret agenda behind their request. For family. What family? I don’t even know why I did it. They had never given us any reason to believe they regretted their actions. But I went with them against my better judgment. And then I came back and he had no idea who I was._

 

 

The more she reads, the more her flooring crumbles. The entry is very meticulous, she must have made sure of it. She finds out, in an exceedingly descriptive way, they were introduced afterward. _Introduced as if they were strangers_. A sadistic, ruthless move by Ritthenhouse. Lucy isn’t surprised in the least.

 

There is a staggering irony to the situation. Because to him, she _was_ a stranger.

 

And that’s when the worst part is presented to her. Making them estranged hadn’t been enough. _No_. They had gone ahead and sabotaged Wyatt’s life in the process.

 

The future journal-version of themselves meet under false pretenses – an interview with an American hero, they had told him; and Lucy needs to sit down in order to keep herself from falling.

 

That Wyatt had _nothing_. War scars all over his body, the recognition she’s used to seeing in his eyes … the _love_ she’s used to receiving, no longer there. He is raised by his abusive father after the premature death of his grandfather. Lucy asks about a girlfriend or wife. He shakes his head introspectively. _She left me after this._ Lucy assumes he’s talking about his crippled body.

 

 _Even with everything lost to him, he’s still polite, still as sweet as can be._ But the light in his eyes is gone. Lucy fights the urge to hold him tightly and ward off all the demons. The tears prickling at her eyes, she can’t fight.

 

 

_He notices it and asks me if I’m okay, throwing in his customary “ma’am” in the process. I lie and say yes, ignoring the pain the word causes. I also tell him we’re about the same age and he doesn’t have to call me “ma’am”. He smiles and apologizes, “Force of habit, miss.”_

 

 

Present Lucy looks up from the journal, unable to catch her breath. Is that what the future holds for them?

 

Amid all the tribulation she realizes one thing, something the Lucy in the journal must have realized as well. The journal isn’t a curse, it’s not something to fear. It is a _weapon_. Her greatest weapon against Rittenhouse, her family … _anything_ that ventures into altering her life against her will.

 

 

_I will change it. I will find a way to act without resorting to unbridled bloodshed. I’ll find something, someone … I'll bring them down._

 

 

There’s no doubt in her mind. Fears and uncertainties wouldn’t keep her from delivering him from that fate.

 

 

_He's coming back home._

 

 

*

 

_Lucy … Lucy._

She’s slowly brought back by the echo of his voice. Apparently, they are still outside the briefing room back in Mason Industries.

 

“You didn’t sleep at all last night, did you?” He asks.

 

“Mmmm,” she hums for an answer, unsure how she’s even able to stand.

 

“You read something in the journal, didn't you?”

 

The sudden silence on her part tells him he’s on the right track.

 

“Something bad?” He is careful, restrained.

 

She looks up at him, nodding coyly.

“How bad?”

 

“ _Bad._ ” She hides her face swiftly, bringing it to its former position over his chest.

 

Wyatt exhales, figures she would tell him if she so desired. _And she would tell him_. So he doesn’t push it.

 

“I’m sure it’s going to be okay, Lucy,” his tone is soft and reassuring.

 

_It is going to be okay. I’m going to make sure of it._

“Hey, you’re dozing off there,” he chuckles quietly, giving her a gentle nudge. “You need some sleep.”

 

“Am I not sleeping already?" She manages out barely above a whisper, surprised her body hasn't shut down on her.

Wyatt grins. “Come. Let’s get you home.”

**Author's Note:**

> I can't wait to read everyone's fics for this and weeks to come but I literally have NO TIME now. How do I manage real life, writing, reading, and just keeping all these feels at bay? Someone please enlighten me.


End file.
